


Beyond Gibraltar (Four Things Andrew Said to Giorgio and One He Never Did)

by mcicioni



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 01:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Five moments in Andrew and Giorgio's voyages, where they discover works of art, dishes from various regions, and developments in their relationship.





	1. "Stop it."

**Author's Note:**

> All my gratitude to Darcyone, for her comments on the language of my stories, and Colisahotnorthernmess, who shares my passion for the program and the presenters, and who always improves my language and characterisation.
> 
> This is fluff, hopefully not too schmaltzy. The two main characters are a chef and an art historian, and in the series there is no trace of "action" of any kind. Any action or dark plots would be, imo, totally OOC. ( _Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta_?)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is based on the public personae of two real people, but the situations and emotions in the story are entirely my invention.

It’s the end of April, possibly the best time to visit Sicily, before the big crowds start gathering in May. They have been to Palermo and are planning to return there; there are a thousand things to organise for the next stage of their journey, but right now they are enjoying a small breathing space while they are waiting for the film crew to collect them. It’s cool and relatively quiet at the outdoor tables of the café in the main square of Cefalú, and it’s fun to watch the huge shape of the Cathedral, the locals, and each other.

“We have half an hour at least,” Andrew says. “I want to show you the Cathedral.”

“Yet another cathedral,” Giorgio drawls, a long-suffering note to his voice as he pays for their coffees, but he’s trying not to smile. Andrew is becoming quite good at “reading” Giorgio, at knowing when he can push him out of his comfort zone - a thought that delights and unsettles him in equal parts.

“Not _another cathedral_ ,” he scolds, more than half serious. ‘A fantastic architectural mix.” He gently pushes Giorgio inside, and smiles at his exclamation of amazement at the contrast between the severe white nave and the gold of the altar mosaics. “Look, just look. The columns are Norman, and on top of the columns there are Islamic arches. And the mosaics are Byzantine, the Normans brought in the artists from Constantinople.”

“There’s also twentieth-century stained glass. Incredible!” Giorgio cries out, pointing at the splashes of colour on the huge windows.

“Fusion architecture, like fusion cuisine,” Andrew smiles at the grin spreading over Giorgio’s strong features. “ _Andiamo_ , let’s go.”

“Wait. You deserve a reward,” Giorgio says solemnly as soon as they’re out into the open air, and lays a large, light hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

Andrew complies, with an exaggerated expression of wariness. Tiny shivers are running from his shoulder to his waist, and his brain is being pierced by flashing thoughts about not being in charge, being taken in hand.

“Now choose: left or right.”

Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting for no reason at all. “Left.”

“Open your eyes.”

Giorgio is holding a bar of chocolate out to him with his left hand. The other hand is still behind his back, out of sight. _Cioccolato ai fichi d’India_ , Andrew reads on the label – prickly pear flavoured chocolate. “No. Impossible.”

“Try it and see.” Giorgio is laughing at him, he’s enjoying himself too much.

“All right.” Andrew breaks off a square and puts it in his mouth, smelling earth and plants, and then sensations race from his tongue and palate right to his brain, luscious sweetness with just a touch of bitterness, spicy and strong. _Exciting_ and _sexy_ , he thinks, but says “Amazing,” which is restrained, safe.

He looks Giorgio over: “And what was in your other hand?”

Giorgio promptly shows him.“ _Cioccolato al peperoncino_ , chili-flavoured.” A pause, a chuckle. “They say it’s an _aphrodeesiac_.”

Andrew blinks, and in that moment a couple of cameramen stroll up from one of the side streets, cappuccino froth on their lips. “Come on, you prima donnas. Back to the grindstone.” Andrew sighs deeply, and he doesn’t know if it’s a response to Giorgio’s stupid joke, or to the young men’s equally stupid quip, or to his own stupid schoolboyish emotions. “All right. Let’s go.”

* * * * * * 

“Andrew! _È pronto_ , dinner’s ready.”

Their accommodation in Cefalú is a fishermen’s cottage: two smallish bedrooms, a Seventies bathroom and a kitchen that’s basic but in good working order. Giorgio emerges from it, glasses pushed up on the top of his head and apron still tied around his waist, carrying a large soup tureen full of something black, shiny and slippery.

“Fettuccine with real _nero di seppia_ , real squid ink,” he announces, dishing out a generous portion on Andrew’s plate. “And salad with braised squid is the second course.” Under Andrew’s envious gaze, he turns his fork to catch just enough fettuccine for a modest mouthful and twirls the fork’s handle with perfectly-measured movements of wrist and fingers. “The angels in Paradise eat octopus as antipasto and a seafood platter as a main course.”

“Is that a Sicilian saying?” Andrew asks, lifting a too-large forkful to his mouth and hoping that no squid ink will end up on the front of his shirt.

“No, it’s a Giorgio Locatelli saying. Eat up.”

The pasta is wonderful, the powerful combination of garlic, squid ink and chili plays havoc with Andrew’s brain cells. He swallows, picks up another huge forkful, and as he is about to eat it he meets Giorgio’s eyes, amused and fond, and he drops his fork, splattering squid ink sauce to the four winds.

“You’ve got some here,” Giorgio is laughing his head off as he points to Andrew’s shirtfront, “and some here,” he points to Andrew’s glasses, “and some here,” he points to a corner of Andrew’s mouth.

Andrew narrows his eyes a little. “ _You_ wipe it off,” he replies at once, without thinking, or maybe subconsciously he had been thinking of something like this all along. How silly. How inappropriate. How utterly _right_.

“No problem,” Giorgio reaches out and his index finger gently rubs the corner of Andrew’s mouth, lingering there for a moment as Giorgio flashes him a quick smile and says softly, “All gone.” And then Giorgio stops smiling and his finger traces the contour of Andrew’s upper lip, brushes his lower lip, and gently pushes, silently seeking permission to enter.

“Stop it,” Andrew says, because that’s what he must say. Maybe he should add _It’s inappropriate_. And then he needs to say _Thank you. Fantastic meal. Goodnight_ – maybe with a smile, to show that there are no hard feelings, that they’re still good friends – and go into his bedroom and close the door.

He does not do any of these things. He just sits there, maybe even leaning a tiny bit into the touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” Giorgio asks, softly, seriously. “If you do, I will stop. And we will never mention it again. I promise.”

Andrew slowly shakes his head, then opens his lips a little and sucks Giorgio’s finger, tasting fish and garlic and a hint of chili. He closes his eyes and sucks harder, as blurred memories of experiments at boarding-school and with friends at Oxford chase each other through his mind. He thinks of Michelangelo’s and Caravaggio’s muscular male bodies, and opens his eyes and looks at Giorgio.

“Get up,” he says, finding his voice – giving orders is as thrilling as receiving them. “Come over here. I want to kiss you.”

They put their arms around each other and try a small peck, but after one second they are moaning into each other’s mouths, it’s better than gelati, it’s better than that bittersweet chocolate, it’s better than Andrew had ever imagined in all the drowsy moments when he thought of Giorgio before going to sleep or when just waking up, all the fantasies that he had pushed out of his mind the moment after they appeared. They stand there, between the table and the kitchen sink, kissing more and more deeply, their bodies fitting perfectly, their erections aligned and beginning to rub against each other.

“We can’t stop here,” Giorgio says against Andrew’s lips, pushing him towards the wall, his hands beginning to move on Andrew’s shoulders and back, long strong sweeps down to his waist and then lower, palms settling on Andrew’s bum and beginning to squeeze.

“We most certainly can’t,” Andrew agrees, keeping his face straight, and does some exploring of his own – Giorgio’s stomach is taut and his backside has lovely firm muscles, he obviously visits swimming pools and gyms quite frequently. Andrew resolves to do likewise in the future, but now is the present and …

“Come to bed,” he hears himself say, loud and urgently.

“ _Obbedisco_ , I obey,” Giorgio laughs, his lips brushing Andrew’s in a teasing caress.

They are naked, lying face to face, eyes and hands roaming over each other’s bodies. Andrew smiles to himself.

“What’s funny?” Giorgio asks, trying to sound stern and managing to sound amused and tender. His index finger is circling around one of Andrew’s nipples, flicking it, lightly scratching it.

“Familiarity breeds freedom,” Andrew says softly, a small giggle behind his words.

“I thought that it breeds contempt,” Giorgio frowns in puzzlement.

“Not always. We’re good friends, so we don’t have to perform – we can take our time. Experiment. Discover.” He slides a little on the bed and licks at Giorgio’s nipple, then slides a little further down and explores Giorgio’s navel with the tip of his tongue. Sweaty, salty, deep. Wonderful.

“Oh no. You don’t do this all by yourself. Wait.” Giorgio sits up, moves down the bed, and now his head is close to Andrew’s belly, and he begins to knead and lick, closer and closer to his target.

Andrew flushes. “Stop it … I haven’t showered.”

“I haven’t either,” Giorgio laughs. “Familiarity is good. Don’t you dare tell me to stop now.” He takes Andrew in his hands – oh yes, _yes_ , that’s what Andrew has been fantasising about for weeks, yes _please_ – and then in his mouth, easy and confident, moaning as he takes him deeper and deeper in. Andrew’s hands clench on Giorgio’s shoulders, yes, this is so different from school and Oxford, so powerful, so good, so …

“Should I stop now?” Giorgio asks wickedly, broad calloused fingers delicately tickling Andrew’s balls.

“I’ll kill you if you do,” Andrew says between gritted teeth, closing his eyes and thrusting wildly, seeing the long raised spears of Paolo Uccello’s battle paintings as he grows unbearably, deliciously tense. He spills suddenly, fast and messily, and oh god, Giorgio is swallowing him, hungrily, no, greedily, no comparison with anything else, so thrilling, so strong, so sweet. 

He opens his eyes and meets Giorgio’s, wide and warm and happy. Giorgio’s stubbled cheek is rubbing gently against the inside of his thigh. 

“You’re so ‘andsome,” Giorgio says, running a hand down Andrew’s chest and belly. “Such smooth English _skeen_.”

“I’m in my fifties,” Andrew says, trying to keep self-consciousness out of his voice. “And you’re pushing fifty.” He shudders as a sharp slap lands on his thigh, its sting mixing with a thrill of pleasure. 

“So?” Giorgio demands. “Speak for yourself, my decrepit friend.” Giorgio slides up and lies on his back, the picture of satisfaction except for one part of his body, still urgently in need of attention.

“Not _that_ decrepit,” Andrew says, straight-faced, as he reaches for it – warm, sticky, wonderfully hard. Afterwards … Afterwards, they’ll finish lunch. Whatever may happen beyond that, heaven only knows, and right now Andrew couldn’t care less.


	2. "Live with It."

This year they’re starting with Abruzzo: beaches, mountains, wine, and whatever cathedrals and frescoes Andrew has managed to organise. The two of them have been slightly self-conscious all the way from Heathrow to Fiumicino, and have begun to unwind a little only after they got into the hired Maserati and set off.

The crew have already piled up in their hired van and are on their way to Sulmona. It’s only a couple of hours’ drive, but they have to cross the Apennines, which will slow them down a bit. Andrew is at the wheel; he drives fast but carefully, and isn’t in the least fazed by driving on the other side of the _autostrada_.

Giorgio feels his entire body relax. “Good to see you,” he says, stretching out a hand and lightly slapping Andrew’s forearm.

“Same here,” Andrew says, lifting his right hand from the wheel and squeezing Giorgio’s knee, hard.

“I’ve been looking forward to … this,” Giorgio says cheerfully. “Filming. Cooking. Being with you,” he adds after a short pause, and laughs, as if it was a joke.

Andrew says nothing. He looks at the road and in the rear-view mirror, but his eyes are crinkled and there’s a little smile hiding at a corner of his mouth. He waits a full two minutes before saying “I missed you too”; Giorgio will make sure he pays for it tonight.

The production staff have found them a flat at the top of a steep rise: two small bedrooms, one with a single bed and one with a double, and a large kitchen-cum-living-room. Giorgio plonks his bags on the nearest armchair and strides into the bigger bedroom: “I get the _letto matrimoniale_ ,” he announces.

Andrew gives him a come-off-it look: “Remember, in the morning we must mess up the other bed.” 

“We _always_ remember,” Giorgio laughs. Then he looks Andrew over. “How tired are you, really?” He smiles broadly as Andrew’s eyes fill with sparks. When they’re together, the sparks appear either in front of a painting, or inside a church, or when Giorgio says something funny. He wants to keep the sparks going for ever.

Andrew’s eyebrows rise in mock bewilderment. “Depends on what you have in mind.” Then he takes a long step forward, and now they’re close enough to share breath, close enough for Giorgio to feel what else is changing in Andrew’s body.

"I _have_ missed you,” Andrew whispers. “I’m going to show you how much.”

  


Giorgio manages to get Andrew up by half past seven, which is quite a feat since Andrew is not an early riser and needs time and coffee to be at his best. “I have a treat for you,” Giorgio says, while swiftly making the other bedroom look slept in. “But there are things that need to soak until evening, so let’s go and buy them.” Half an hour later, after a quick cappuccino-and-croissant breakfast, they are walking down the main street, towards the market in the Piazza Garibaldi. Andrew looks ahead, left, right, back, and comments, “Whichever way we look, there’s a street that leads up to a mountain.” Then he says “Not bad,” which in Graham-Dixonese means _absolutely beautiful_.

Between the arches of the medieval aqueduct and the snow-capped mountains, the big square is filled with white or striped awnings, under which there are stalls full of clothes, shoes, fruit and vegetables, and refrigerated vans full of meats and cheeses. Giorgio buys pasta shells, onions, celery, a big ham bone with some ham still left on it, and then a hundred grams each of red beans, white beans, lentils, pearl barley and spelt. The woman at the stall nods wisely as she takes his money. Andrew mock-frowns: “I know you know what you’re doing, but I can’t help wondering …”

“Stop wondering,” Giorgio says, and turns back towards their flat. “I want to soak all these before we start shooting. Tell you all about it later.”

“All right.” Andrew taps Giorgio’s forearm, and the spot where he has tapped feels a little warmer. Giorgio glances at him with a rush of happiness at the thought that this beautiful man with greying hair and a surprisingly noisy laughter is going to belong to him for a whole month, during the shoots, and before, and after. It’s an effort not to say any of this out loud, but Andrew is British and would probably be embarrassed by such an unseemly confession. So he just lays a hand on Andrew’s shoulder: “I’ll say only one thing now: this dish is called _le virtú_ , the virtues. _Andiamo_.”

  


It’s evening, they have finished shooting, and four different saucepans are simmering away on the cooker. They are standing in front of the open window, watching locals stroll up and down the main street.

“Now can you explain why it’s called _the virtues_?” Andrew asks, tortoiseshell glasses slipping a little down his nose. He has been looking online and in a couple of cookbooks, and has found at least four different theories for the name of the dish. Giorgio tries to imagine Andrew as a public schoolboy and as an Oxford student, feels a little surge of affection and puts an arm around Andrew’s shoulders.

“Not sure. Probably because it’s a frugal dish – in April, at the end of winter, peasant women emptied all the casks where they kept dried beans, boiled each type separately, and then cooked them together with pasta in the ham stock. Relatives, friends and the local poor got a plateful of this soup as a gift. That’s peasant culture for you: the dishes follow the season’s rhythms, nothing is wasted, things are shared.”

He stops, goes to the table, pours them each a glass of wine, wordlessly hands Andrew one and takes a swallow from his own. What he wants to tell Andrew is complicated enough in his mind, and he needs to say it in English to make sure Andrew doesn’t miss anything. Difficult. But the hell with it, he’s going to try.

“I didn’t go to university,” he says, aware that he has abruptly changed the subject. “My parents wanted me to, but I knew what I wanted to do, and I never regretted it. But at times I feel that I haven’t got … the education that I need to appreciate, really appreciate, things like art, or buildings. I don’t know enough about the Middle Ages or the Renaissance. And I don’t know ‘ow to look.” Shit, when he gets emotional his accent gets worse. “When you show me churches and statues I see what you want me to see, and it makes me ‘appy.” 

He pauses. This is half of what he wants to say. Andrew is listening in silence, and Giorgio loves him for this.

He drinks a little more wine. “But in our show sometimes I don’t want to talk about the history of churches and paintings. I want to talk about the common people in Italy. The farmers. The fishermen. The car mechanics. What houses they live in, what they do each season. How they learned to make great food from leftover beans or sardines.” Enough. He shrugs, thinking that “rambling nonsense” in English is _waffle_ , and in Italian _aria fritta_ , fried air. He runs a hand through his hair and just looks at Andrew.

“You’re good at this, you know,” Andrew says quietly, with complete certainty.

“At frying air?”

Andrew frowns. “What? What air? At making connections between food and culture. And at showing them to me. And to the people who are going to watch us.” He tops up both glasses, smiling. “ _Ho fame_.”

“You’re always hungry,” Giorgio laughs, emptying all the saucepans into one large pot and adding the pasta and some stock from the ham bone. He turns the gas down very low. “Ok, less than an hour to go. You’ve been dying to tell me all about the _Quattrocento_ fountain. It’s just down the road, so let’s go and see it.”

  


Giorgio wipes his mouth after the last spoonful of the thick, rich soup. It was excellent, flavours and textures blending in the mouth, the floury chick peas, the smooth lentils, the deliciously oily ham. Wonderful smells are still wafting around the kitchen. He looks across the table at Andrew, who is finishing off his second plate. Maybe neither of them needed seconds – Andrew’s shirts are getting tighter around his waist, and he has stopped tucking them into his trousers – but Giorgio cooks with all of himself, nose and hands and brain and guts, and he loves to see Andrew appreciate it, every night they are together. Cooking for Andrew is just like cooking for his own parents in Corgeno or his family in London – it’s not only fun, it’s offering them the most authentic part of himself, what he has learned, what he can do to make someone he loves feel warm and looked after. 

He blinks, as his mind is filled with an image of his family sitting down to another dinner he hasn’t cooked, another dinner without him. They turn up in his head, unannounced, at odd moments, day and night, and his guts twist with pain and guilt and longing. But he is here, where he also – with all of himself – wants to be right now, beside this Englishman who has drifted into his emotions and taken stable residence there.

When his thoughts start going in this direction he usually jumps up and finds something to do, drags Andrew out for a walk, or finds a new recipe, or looks for the address of a supplier or a friend. Tonight he has already cooked, the washing-up will be done by someone else tomorrow morning while they are shooting, and it’s almost midnight.

“Fancy another walk? The Cathedral by night?” he asks nevertheless.

Andrew looks at him seriously, intensely, reading him. “No,” he says simply, then adds, with shadows in his eyes instead of sparks, “When I think of … home, I just … live with it.”

“Live with it?”

“Yes. Accept that things are what they are. That whatever we choose to do, it’s messy and painful.” He gets up, walks behind Giorgio’s chair and silently starts kneading his shoulders. His hands look delicate, a scholar’s hands, but they are actually quite strong and know all of Giorgio’s sensitive spots, on his neck, on his back, in other places. Maybe he studied anatomy as part of his art history degree.

“Bed?” Andrew asks after a while, voice husky, hands tightening a little on Giorgio’s shoulders.

Giorgio’s brain begins to buzz in anticipation. “Yes. Please. Now.” 


	3. "We're beyond Gibraltar."

“This is hard work.” Both of them are quite fit, but going up the narrow cobbled alleyways of one of the two hills in Todi is making them a little breathless. Giorgio is in slightly better shape than Andrew, but he likes complaining. “You’ve been here before, how long do we …?”

“If you ask _Are we there yet_ I will hit you, I promise.” Only three years between them, and at times Andrew feels as if he were taking a recalcitrant ten-year-old on an educational trip. They are what Giorgio calls – with an expression he probably picked up from some gangster film – _casing the joint_ , doing a preliminary reconnaissance tour before they start shooting. 

They keep going uphill in silence until they reach a little square with a stunning view of the Umbrian countryside. “Are we …” Giorgio laughs, corrects himself. “Is this the Piazza del Popolo?”

“No, this is Piazza Garibaldi. Piazza del Popolo is just around the corner.” 

Giorgio chuckles. “You’ve been in hundreds of cities and towns in Italy, by yourself and with me,” he puts an arm around Andrew’s shoulders, “so you know that in nearly every one there’s a Piazza Garibaldi.”

“And in the few towns where there isn’t one, there’s a Via Garibaldi. And,” Andrew glances at the map and giggles, “here in Todi there’s a Corso Cavour as well.” In their last trip they spent some time discussing the roles played by the people’s hero, Garibaldi, and the wily statesman, Cavour, in the fight for national unification. Now they grin at each other, remembering.

Piazza del Popolo is the perfect medieval town square, with a large building on each side, three secular ones and the cathedral, all in matt white stone, dazzling in the late-morning sun. Giorgio runs up the steps that lead to the imposing Palazzo del Popolo. “Fantastic. Just the right setting for a … what’s the English for a _film di cappa e spada_ ?” He takes up a rather sloppy en-garde stance, pointing an imaginary sword at Andrew.

“Swashbuckler,” Andrew replies, trying not to smirk. “And if memory serves me, they did shoot quite a few here. Want to see the Roman cisterns underneath the square?”

“No. I want to sit down and have lunch. Because I know that afterwards you’re taking me to see the works of a modern artist.”

  
  


“So who is this Beverly Pepper?” They are sitting at a café in the square, happily biting into two perfect panini, one with _porchetta_ and one with _frittata_. “And can I ‘ave a taste of your panino?”

Looking put-upon, Andrew hands his panino to Giorgio, who cheerfully takes rather a large bite. “Here you are.” He pauses for a moment. “ _Here_ you are,” he repeats, emphasising the aspiration. “It’s easy, you’re just lazy - breathe in, then breathe the H out. Head. Have. Hunting.”

Giorgio throws his head back and laughs out loud. “In _‘Artford, ‘Ereford_ and _‘Ampshire_ ,” he challenges, knowing that of course Andrew will get the reference. “ _The rine in Spine sties minely on the pline_.”

Andrew kicks him lightly under the table. “I thought you didn’t mind my correcting you every now and then.”

Giorgio frowns a little. “The grammar, the vocabulary – yes, I mean no, I don’t mind, I like it. My accent … it’s who I am, it’s my history.” The H in the last word is very carefully aspirated. “I would never want to pass for an Englishman. What would I want that for? I’m a chef, not a UN interpreter.”

Andrew ponders on the reply. “You may be right,” he says, the polite way of saying _I don’t agree with you, but I don’t want to have an argument_. He moves his hand across the table and tickles the underside of Giorgio’s wrist. “Back to Beverly Pepper.”

“Right,” Giorgio says resignedly.

“She is an American, over ninety years old, she has lived in Todi for nearly fifty years. She makes sculptures of industrial materials, wood, steel, cast iron. Until a few years ago she used to do her welding in factories and foundries.” Giorgio is interested, eager. He always is, after his initial show of reluctance. “She’s near the end of her life and has donated twenty of her best works to the town, for the people to share. They’re going to be a sculpture park that will go through the town centre. Right now in the Palazzo del Popolo there’s a photographic exhibition of the works that will be in the park. That’s what we’re going to see.”

In the middle of an imposing medieval hall, there are small artworks – metal triangles, spirals, twists, broken Möbius strips – and pictures of massive ones. Giorgio stops in his tracks before a huge photograph of four gigantic columns of rusted iron, planted right in the middle of the medieval buildings in the Piazza del Popolo, and gapes at Andrew.

“Yes, she set them there in 1979, it created quite a stir,” Andrew explains. “Some people objected to mixing contemporary and medieval art. They said that the columns were a provocation, that the town had been defiled, or some such nonsense.”

Giorgio looks intently at the photograph. “You once told me that art makes us see what we don’t see. This … it’s scary, but at the same time it’s right … the columns and the _palazzi_ interact, they speak to each other.” His hands open and lift, drawing lines in the air.

Andrew nods, lightly patting his back. “It would be good to come back here in the autumn, the sculpture park will be open then.”

Giorgio smiles at him, his wide, eager smile. “Yes. Let’s.”

  
  


Another temporary home, where they spend one day cooking and eating under the eyes of the cameras and another day or two on their own, without an audience. Andrew usually reads books on Italy or buys _The Independent_ and does the cryptic crossword. Giorgio buys _La Repubblica_ , swears at Italian politicians, and reads bits aloud to Andrew while he’s trying to do the crossword. Then he starts cooking, but he needs company even when the cameras aren’t around: “ _Andrea_ , come on, lend a hand here, sing for your supper.” Andrew patiently refrains from pointing out that he already has done his share, drops whatever he was doing, and starts peeling vegetables.

This time the slavedriver needs to wait for three hours before he can cook the piece of wild boar that is resting in a marinade of chopped vegetables, wine, and juniper berries. So they go out, find the other hill and climb the one hundred and fifty steps up to the Church of San Fortunato. Their legs are shaking when they get to the top, but the peaceful view of the green hills rolling into the horizon is entirely worth the effort. They stand side by side in silence, savouring it.

“It would be fantastic to come back here, by ourselves,” Giorgio says wistfully after a while. They look at each other, remembering what they said at the exhibition.

“Could we?” Andrew asks, of himself as well as his friend. “We both have so many commitments. But with a bit of careful planning we could manage three or four days.”

They are alone outside the church door, yet Giorgio lowers his voice. “I’d have to … do you say _clear it_ ? At home.”

He’s trespassing. The unspoken agreement between them is that their families in England are off limits – each of them steps out of any shared space when the other one phones or skypes home, and wives and children are mentioned only fleetingly, never discussed seriously. If Andrew responds, he’ll be trespassing too.

“For me, it’s _don’t ask don’t tell_ ,” Andrew says very quietly, running a fingertip over the thin carved marble cylinders that spiral around the central doorway. “About myself, and … you know.”

Giorgio nods, looks away, and says softly, “After our first trip, when I returned home from Sicily …” Andrew makes a small noise of acknowledgement. As if he could forget the first trip. “One morning I found a card in my briefcase. A card with a picture of a ship, and just a few words, a quote from Horatio Nelson: _Every sailor is a bachelor when beyond Gibraltar_.” A pause. “It took me a while to work it out. Don’t ask don’t tell, only classier.”

The old church sexton approaches them: “ _Si chiude_ , closing time.” He shuts the wooden doors in their faces, but they remain standing, close together, in front of the doorway. They don’t speak, they just look at the tiny figures that nestle between the winding twists of the marble cylinders.

Maybe showing things to Giorgio can be a way out of this uneasiness. “There’s a dragon hiding here. And here’s a serpent tempting Eve.”

Giorgio chuckles and points at another spot. “And here’s a naked friar, he seems … very excited.” He waits for Andrew to stop smirking. “Do the different plants mean anything?”

“Yes. The grapevine is traditionally Good, the fig tree is Evil.”

“They are intertwined. They touch in so many places.”

Neither of them says anything else. The sky has gone dark, they can barely see the outline of the hills.

" _Andiamo_ ,” says Andrew, resting a hand on Giorgio’s shoulder. “We’ve got one hundred and fifty steps to climb down.”

  
  


The boar stew is wonderful, and both of them make their usual appreciative noises, but conversation is sporadic. Giorgio’s never-ending spate of talk seems to have dried out. Catholic guilt? No, he’s not a practising Catholic. He’s just a good man. Andrew remembers the intertwined plants of good and evil as he glances at Giorgio’s uncharacteristically downcast eyes.

He puts down his fork. “Giorgio, listen to me for a minute.”

Giorgio lifts his eyes, frowning a little. 

“I always tell you how good your dishes are. But I hardly ever tell you how grateful I am for the time you spend planning each meal, soaking and marinating and doing whatever else you do to the food.” He shushes Giorgio with a gesture. “Once, in Calabria, you told me that you were responsible for putting food on the table and I was responsible for putting it into my mouth.” Both remember, and smile at each other. “Care. And love. I am very lucky.”

Giorgio is – incredibly – quiet, but his eyes are wide.

“Right now, you and I are at sea,” Andrews continues slowly. “We’ll soon be ashore. But here, we’re beyond Gibraltar.”

Giorgio breathes out, nods twice, and his strong features fill with warmth as he holds out a hand. “ _Vieni qui_.” He takes hold of Andrew’s hand, pulls him close and kisses him, long and hard and a little rough. Andrew keeps his eyes open as he returns the kiss, sees that Giorgio’s eyelids are moist, and runs his fingertips over Giorgio’s face, stroking every imperfection and every faint line, caressing a corner of the wide mouth with his thumb.

Giorgio slowly lets go of Andrew and takes a step back. “Right,” he says, his voice breaking just a little. “Let’s go back to the Piazza del Popolo. Everyone else is having dinner, we’ll have the square and the moonlight views to ourselves.” He giggles at the expression on Andrew’s face. “ _Avanti_ , come on. We need to digest all this wild boar.” 

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” Andrew says wryly, but his eyes crinkle in a smile as he grabs his jacket. “Very well. _Andiamo_."


	4. "Only Connect"

“Not bad,” Andrew says, breathless, tousled and sweaty, legs intertwined with Giorgio’s. Early-morning sun is filtering through the roller blinds. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, desire flares up before they’re fully awake, and they reach for each other and take their pleasure, quickly, wordlessly, not all that gently. It’s spontaneous and wonderful, considering that they are both a little past their prime.

Giorgio makes an outraged face. “No. No. No.” He punctuates each refutation with a pinch or a tickle. “It wasn’t _not bad_. It was incredible. Fantastic. _Esseptional_.” The same words they use after tasting one of Giorgio’s creations; it’s so good to watch Andrew hesitate before swallowing his first mouthful of spleen or sea urchin or something else unfamiliar, and then smile, decadent bliss spreading across his face.

Just as good as when they’re approaching some church and Andrew orders him to close his eyes. He does – following orders can be thrilling, at times – and walks slowly with Andrew’s hand on his elbow, guiding him, and waits to be told to open his eyes. When he does, he’s surrounded by blinding stucco scenes, or he’s facing another breath-taking Caravaggio, or he’s in the centre of golden mosaics, and Andrew shows him how the colours sing together and why the angels are androgynous and why the Bible scene is really a metaphor for some Renaissance power game.

Just as good as when Andrew takes him with mouth and hand, eyes wide open, hands gripping Giorgio’s thighs, not a trace of English restraint or scholarly caution, while Giorgio clutches his shoulders, feeling his own body tense and quiver and his mind fill with soppy thoughts that shouldn’t be shouted out.

If he could, he’d stay in this room all day. But he can’t. So he sighs, “When do we have to get up?”

“We’re meeting the team at the library, around eleven.” Andrew yawns and stretches, relaxed and a little unfocused.

“Well …” Giorgio runs his fingertips along the hints of bags under Andrew’s eyes and over the just-visible lines on his cheeks. Then, lightning quick, moves downwards to pinch one of Andrew’s love handles. “We could …” he carefully does not say _case the joint_ ; though he loves the expression, he doesn’t want Andrew to come back at him with anything sarcastic, “ ... look the library over by ourselves first. I’ve only seen the outside, and it’s not all that splendid.”

  
  


The exterior of the Malatesta Library in Cesena is a plain two-storey building boxed in by nineteenth-century houses in a small square. Giorgio dodges two boys racing around on their bicycles and turns to Andrew. “Hope it’s more interesting inside.”

“Wait and see.” Andrew’s dark eyes are wide open and full of anticipation. “It’s on the UNESCO heritage list. And they say Umberto Eco had this library in mind when he described the library in _The Name of the Rose_.”

“I read that,” Giorgio says. “All those murdered monks. Maybe …”

He can’t finish. Someone behind them shouts “Giorgioooo! Giorgio Locatelliiii!”, they hear heavy running steps, and Giorgio is seized in a bear hug from behind.

He manages to half-turn around and grin at his old school friend. “Maurizio!” he shouts back, and switches to Italian. “I thought you lived in Milan, what the hell are you doing in Cesena? Restructuring the library?”

Maurizio releases Giorgio, chuckling. “Of course not. Luciana and I have moved, I’ve joined a firm of architects here, we’re renovating a ward at the hospital. And you?”

Giorgio quickly introduces Andrew and explains how the two of them are “unpacking” Italy for British viewers. Maurizio is delighted: “Great,” he says, in good English. “Tonight you two are having dinner at our place.”

“I’ll cook,” Giorgio offers.

“No, you’re the guests. You’re going to taste the best Romagna food you’ve ever eaten in your lives. Luciana makes wonderful _strozzapreti_.”

Andrew blinks and interrupts. “Wonderful _what_ ?? No. Don’t tell me that there’s a dish called … _strozza i preti_ ? Chokes the priests?”

The two Italians laugh uproariously. “Yes. There is indeed,” Giorgio says, putting an arm around Andrew’s shoulders. “ _Strozzapreti_ , priest choker. It’s a pasta dish. You see, Romagna was part of the Papal States for centuries, and most of the people hated the church.”

“The church owned more or less everything, and what they didn’t own they taxed,” Maurizio continues. “Country priests constantly knocked on villagers’ doors to demand money ‘for the church’ and fresh food.”

Giorgio can’t wait to get to the food part. “So the _romagnole_ women made a pasta with no eggs, just flour and water and a pinch of salt, cut it into short twisty pieces, and hoped that the priest would eat it and choke on it.”

Andrew is laughing so hard that he can only speak in spurts. “Did … any priests … actually eat it … and _die_ ?"

“We don’t know,” Maurizio says cheerfully. “But it won’t kill _you_ , Luciana’s _ragú_ is as good as Giorgio’s. All right, all right, _almost_."

  
  


The librarian unlocks a heavy, carved walnut door, and they step back five hundred years, into another world. Sunlight is pouring in through a big round window at the end and two long rows of arched side windows. The library hall is built like a basilica: they walk slowly through the central nave and gaze at the two side naves, guarded by austere white pillars. But it’s a temple of learning, not religion: the pews in the side naves are wooden lecterns, and the huge illuminated books on the desks are volumes of mathematics and medicine and philosophy.

“The books are chained to the desks,” Giorgio whispers in awe.

“Of course, otherwise people would _borrow_ them,” Andrew says, smiling. “In the sixteenth century, one of these was worth as much as a house. Today, it’d be worth something like a million pounds. Come closer – see, some are in Greek, some in Latin, some in Hebrew.”

Giorgio gazes around, noticing the lack of any artificial lighting and the positions of desks and windows. “I get it. As the daylight moved around the room, the monks picked up their books and followed it. Musical pews, so to speak.” He stops, regretting his silly joke. “Amazing.” He puts a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and pulls him a little closer. “Thank you.”

On their way out, they see another, huge room. Under a fifteenth-century white vaulted ceiling, people of different ages and skin colours are reading, writing, wandering among the open shelves, tapping on computer keyboards, or just sitting in silence. Giorgio and Andrew nod happily at each other and walk towards the exit.

“Not bad, eh?” Andrew says, waving Giorgio out.

“Not bad at all.”

  
  


The dinner table is simple, but tastefully set, with plain white porcelain dishes. Nobody is seated yet, because hosts and guests are crowding in the kitchen.

“Come on, tell us. Did you or didn’t you put tomato into the _ragú_ ? And watch out, there’s a bet riding on this question, so whatever you answer, you’ll have both a friend and an enemy for life.” Giorgio mock-glares at Andrew, who mock-glares back.

Luciana glances from one to the other, a faint smile flickering over her lips. She’s as elegant as ever: any grey in her hair is carefully disguised, and under her chef’s apron she is wearing impeccably ironed trousers and a silk shirt. “All right. I confess. I did add a little tomato purée after I browned the mince. And just a touch of milk towards the end.”

Giorgio hugs her: “A free _speerit_ , like me.” And he smirks at Andrew: “I won. As I knew I would. And you owe me ten euros.”

Andrew lifts a pedantic finger: “Heretics, both of you. Pellegrino Artusi is turning in his grave.” He picks up one piece of uncooked home-made _strozzapreti_ and examines its careful twists. “Is this what will make the priest choke? Very Lucrezia Borgia-ish.”

Maurizio hands everyone a glass of Sangiovese, and while the pasta is cooking they talk a little politics and a little music, and feel at ease, comfortable with one another.

“You brought us all together, Giorgio,” says Maurizio. “Friends old and new.”

“Only connect,” says Andrew, making inverted commas in the air with both index fingers.

“ _Only connect, the prose and the passion_ ,” Luciana completes the quote. And, a little embarrassed, she explains to the new acquaintance: “I teach English in a _liceo_. And I wrote my undergraduate thesis on Forster’s _Maurice_ and Umberto Saba’s _Ernesto_.” 

Andrew nods at the first title and raises an eyebrow towards Giorgio at the second.

“Italian gay novel,” Giorgio says quickly, then grabs a big terracotta bowl and hands it to Luciana. “Quick, let’s drain almost all the cooking water, and then we can put your lovely thick _ragú_ on top of your fantastic priest-killers.”

  
  


They are walking in step through the cobbled streets of the old town, admiring the shades of yellow, orange and pink of houses and arcades. They stop to observe a cast-iron statue of an old man with an accordion and another one of a young female tightrope walker poised on a staircase bannister.

“I enjoyed myself,” Andrew says. “And Maurizio was right, Luciana’s _ragú_ is _almost_ as good as yours.” The qualifier is stressed; Giorgio nods in satisfaction. “I like watching you with your friends,” Andrew adds after a few seconds. “You’re loud, you get emotional, you make bad jokes in two languages.”

“I can make bad jokes in _three_ languages, thank you very much. Remember, I worked in France for a couple of years.” They walk in silence for a couple of minutes, then Giorgio continues: “I had fun too. The three of us have known one another since we were in our twenties. But … it’s also good to be out of there.” He runs his hand through his forest of brown and grey curls. “They never asked about our families. They talked of everything but that. And then Luciana mentioned those gay books.”

Andrew stops and turns towards him. “Would you have preferred direct questions?” He shudders slightly.

Giorgio shakes his head. “No. Definitely not.”

They’re almost at their rented flat when Andrew speaks again. “Whether they accepted us or not, and I think they did, they’re your friends. You do the _only connect_ -ing bit so easily. You have friends in so many places, and where you don’t, you make them.” A moment’s pause. “It’s a little harder for me. Being outgoing is something I have to consciously work at. Especially here in Italy.” 

Giorgio shrugs. “Extroverted Italians, reserved English people. Surely that’s not a problem?”

“That’s too easy,” Andrew replies at once, a little sharply. “You,” he points directly at Giorgio’s chest, “have this gift, this energy. Wherever you are, you get people to talk, to explain, to show what they do, and everything livens up,” and now he’s waving his hands to help Giorgio understand, how very un-English of him, how sweet, “everything is new and exciting, even vinegar, even salami.”

Giorgio smiles, moved and fond. Andrew looks away. “I went to boarding school and learned how to be … self-sufficient. And after that … lots of work, a few good friends, a few people I loved. My life was full and quite happy as it was.” He shakes his head to himself. “Until that day at the Sicilian olive growers. Then things began to change.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Speaking for myself, yes.” Andrew lifts a hand, cups Giorgio’s cheek and rubs his thumb against the stubble. “Meeting working Italians as well as academics and aristocrats, realising where the real fun, the real life, is. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Giorgio says, meaning it, and giving Andrew’s thumb a gentle kiss and a hard suck. He opens the door, lets Andrew in, closes the door and gently pushes Andrew against it. “Let’s connect,” he whispers, undoing the first couple of buttons of Andrew’s shirt.

“Wait,” Andrew says. “Before you start ravishing me, I want to quote someone else. I am a bookworm, what do you Italians say, _un topo di biblioteca_ , a library mouse. Very appropriate to mention this today, since we visited a library.” His lips brush against Giorgio’s as he says, slowly and mock-solemnly, “So, as an English bookworm, I’ll give you something from _our_ late sixteenth century.” His voice becomes huskier, seductive, with a playful lilt to it. “ _Licence my roving hands, and let them go, / before, behind, between, above, below_. " And his hands do begin to rove, unbuttoning, stroking, squeezing, tickling, travelling in all the directions mentioned in the line he is repeating.

“Oh,” Giorgio says, shudders of desire running all the way down his spine, “Mmm. Yes,” and then grabs Andrew’s wrist and moves towards the bedroom. “ _You_ licence _my_ roving ‘ands, and I’ll show you some more places they can go, and some of the things they can do.”

  
  


When he goes to sleep, Giorgio dreams that he and Andrew are sharing a plate of _strozzapreti_ in a corner of the library, surrounded by light and silence and monks writing in big tomes. In the morning, the dream hasn’t vanished; it’s still somewhere inside him, a small warm spot of connection and happiness. He never tells Andrew about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew's first quote is from E. M. Forster's novel _Howard's End_. His second quote is from John Donne's witty, sexy poem "To His Mistress Going to Bed".


	5. "What if ...?"

“So, this is _the drawing-room of Trieste_.” Andrew turns his head to gaze at three of the four sides of the huge Piazza dell’Unità d’Italia, each lined by a row of imposing Art Nouveau buildings. The fourth side is the Adriatic Sea: the square is right on the waterfront. “Amazing. And so are the people here. Not all of them speak Italian …” He meets Giorgio’s amused eyes, does a double take, and chuckles. “I mean, apart from tourists and stickybeaks like ourselves. I’ve heard people speaking Croatian, and some older ones speaking German.”

He stops, shaking his head at himself. Of course this city is multilingual and multicultural: it’s at the crossroads with Croatia and Slovenia, and it was the second most important city in the Austro-Hungarian empire until the end of World War I. It will be fun to drag Giorgio around to visit all the places of worship, Greek Orthodox churches, Catholic churches, Protestant churches, and the big synagogue.

The sea in front of them is shimmering with light, but the sea breeze is cool. It will soon be autumn. This is their last destination; in three days’ time they will be back in England. Andrew breathes in a lungful of nippy air and shivers slightly. Giorgio notices, and gives him a stern look.

“Serves you right for not listening, I _told_ you that it’s a windy city,” he scolds, opening his backpack and extracting the blue knitted scarf he keeps there just in case it gets cold. He pulls Andrew closer and wraps the scarf around his neck; his fingers caress Andrew’s throat and lightly dip into the back of his shirt collar. “Come on, let’s have lunch. Then we can get to your museum, the meeting with the crew is at three.”

They stroll along the Canal Grande, trying to decide which of the many elegant cafés is the most promising, and chatting about Trieste having a coffee-house culture, just like Vienna. Giorgio buys Andrew a _nero in B_ , a short black in a glass (B for _bicchiere_ ) and Andrew repeats the _triestino_ expression, not caring if Giorgio and the _triestini_ around them laugh at his accent.

On a bridge, the iron statue of a youngish man is looking at them: his clothes are rumpled, his mustache is unkempt, and his eyes are wide open, ironical and a little dreamy.

“That’s James Joyce,” Andrew says. “He spent fifteen years here, taught English, wrote most of _Ulysses_ in a small scruffy flat. And … _vieni con me_ , come along.”

He leads Giorgio down another street and shows him another metal statue. This man is middle-aged, respectably dressed in a beret and a long overcoat, has a pipe between his teeth, and carries a walking stick.

“I’ve done my homework, you know,” Andrew boasts self-mockingly. “That’s the poet Umberto Saba, hurrying towards his antique bookshop.” He stops for a moment. “He’s the man who wrote the gay novel your friends in Cesena mentioned last week.”

Giorgio nods. They bend down to read a few lines of a poem on the plaque near the statue: “ _Avevo una città bella fra i monti/ e il mare luminoso …_ ” They translate it together, supplying words to each other: “I used to have a city, beautiful/ among the mountains and the luminous sea … Everything was taken by the inept Fascist/ and the greedy German.”

“Saba was half Jewish,” Giorgio says softly. He must have done some homework too, when Andrew wasn’t looking. “That was enough to ‘ave his shop confiscated.” He gives Andrew’s back a little push towards the bookshop. “ _Entriamo_ , let’s go in.”

He strides in, gives the young saleswoman some money and a dazzling smile, and with a flourish hands Andrew two books. One is a collection of Saba’s poems, the other is the novel _Ernesto_. The saleswoman beams at them and sees them off with another, more famous, quote:

“ _Trieste ha una scontrosa/grazia. Se piace, / è come un ragazzaccio aspro e vorace,/ con gli occhi azzurri e mani troppo grandi/ per regalare un fiore,/ come un amore/ con gelosia._ ”

And Giorgio, with his strong accent and Lombard panache, whispers his translation, hesitating at the more difficult words: “Trieste has a … surly grace. If you like it, it’s like a teenage … rascal, sharp and greedy, with blue eyes and hands too large to offer a flower …” and here a little pink begins to show beneath his suntan, “it’s like a love that is mixed with jealousy.”

Andrew would like to ask why Giorgio is blushing. He doesn’t, and just says, “We’re not far from the Museo Revoltella. There’s something I’d like you to see before we start shooting.”

  


Light streams in through skylights or shines on individual artworks from spotlights. Large windows look out at hills covered in red roofs, or onto the long piers and the ships riding at anchor in the harbour. Andrew walks quickly past a series of metal statues: “These we’ll discuss during the shoots,” he says shortly. “Now I want to show you something else.”

It’s a smallish late-nineteenth-century oil painting by Giovanni Fattori, called _Bivacco_ – soldiers’ camp. A few white tents in a wood, their triangular shapes breaking up the dark-green foliage of the trees. Soldiers wearing blue French tunics or greyish shirts and trousers are standing or sitting outside the tents. In the foreground, two men are either dozing or resting, lying on their stomachs in the high grass, side by side. It’s a precious, probably too brief, moment of peace before duty calls again; the vanishing point is out of sight, somewhere outside the picture, somewhere where other men may be fighting.

Andrew waits for Giorgio to look questioningly at him and ask “That’s it?” or words to that effect. Giorgio looks at the picture, steps back, and says softy, “The war is somewhere else.”

“Exactly.” Andrew would like to hug Giorgio, but restrains himself. “I love Fattori because he paints things like this, the daily lives of army privates, or peasants, or cowhands. And I thought of this particular picture because …” he pauses, shrugs lightly, looks at Giorgio with a half smile, “you sleep on your stomach as well.”

Giorgio lays a hand on Andrew’s neck and leaves it there, warm and heavy, for a long moment. Then he says gravely, “At least I don’t snore, unlike some other people I won’t name and shame.” They are both chuckling as they go back to the entrance, to meet the crew and get ready to discuss twentieth-century sculptures.

  


The small piece of pork shoulder – their last meal together: they’re flying back to England tomorrow morning – has been simmering for a couple of hours. At a corner of the kitchen table, Andrew is trying to read _Ernesto_ , but needs to go over every sentence he reads, because he seems to be unable to concentrate. He glances at Giorgio, who is cheerfully chopping onions and garlic. Giorgio is a born multi-tasker and needs an audience – he can chat and at the same time chop, check the pork shoulder, have a sip of wine, describe what he’s doing, fry the sausages he calls _luganighe_ , and sauté the chopped onion in a big saucepan.

“Andrew!” Giorgio shouts. Of course, he also needs a sous-chef he can boss around. “This,” and he hefts a huge white cabbage, “is a _capuzo. Capuzi garbi_ is the Trieste equivalent of _sauerkraut_ , and we’re going to have it with the sausages and the _porzina_ , the pork shoulder. But,” he explains slowly and carefully, as if he were addressing someone very young or very slow, “we can’t cook it unless someone chops it.” He hands the cabbage to Andrew and points to the chopping board.

Andrew sighs and complies. He occasionally cooks at home, but without the leisure, the laughter and the comradeship of working under Giorgio’s directions. As he chops the cabbage into fine, narrow strips, he catches himself wondering what it would be like if he and Giorgio lived together and if he did some of the cooking, obviously when Giorgio wasn’t around to interfere and criticise. He grins to himself as he tries to imagine what Giorgio’s expression would be if he ever tasted some of Andrew’s pasta or fish and found it actually edible.

 _What if …?_ He half-closes his eyes and allows himself one minute to daydream, glad that Giorgio is busy at the stove, with his back to him. A flat in Palermo, or maybe in Rome’s Garbatella district. Films, operas, art galleries, together. Arguments about politics, or books left in the kitchen, or clothes left in the living-room; arguments about the dangers of motorbikes, or which pictures could hang where. Waking up together every morning. Leaving each other space. Growing old side by side. Then he opens his eyes and thinks about his family and Giorgio’s, the pain and guilt and anger and despair of breakups. No, there’s no _what if_. They can’t go back to being just friends, but they can’t go forward either. Their time together is what it is, always beyond Gibraltar, never on English soil.

Giorgio turns around, raises an eyebrow at the half-chopped cabbage in front of Andrew, shakes a finger at him, grabs another knife and gets the job done in less than two minutes.

“Right.” The cabbage is in the pan with the onion, some spices, some vinegar and some water. “Now …” Giorgio covers it and turns the gas down low, “both pans can simmer away peacefully, and in an hour or so we can eat.” He sits down opposite Andrew and gives him a level look. “So now you can tell me what you were brooding about.”

“The Fattori painting,” Andrew states, straight-faced, and it’s not that much of a lie. The best lies always contain a chunk of truth anyway. “Men getting a moment’s respite before duty calls.”

Giorgio’s eyes narrow; he abruptly stands up and turns the gas off under both saucepans. Andrew blinks: for a chef, to turn off something that should simmer is a mortal sin. Giorgio just says “ _Vieni_ ,” and turns towards the bedroom. 

Andrew follows him into the bedroom and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Giorgio stops him, a large hand splayed on Andrew’s chest.

“No,” he says. “Tonight you do as I say.”

Andrew swallows. “Why?”

“Because I want you to stop brooding.” He stops, looks intently at Andrew, and asks softly, “All right?”

Andrew nods, and stands still while Giorgio quickly and wordlessly frees him from shirt, trousers and underwear, and reaches for the lube in the bedside drawer. Andrew feels himself swell and shudder in anticipation mixed with trepidation, like the first time they did _this_ , like every time they do _this_ , irrespective of which of them takes the other.

The bed is high, with a heavy mattress. Giorgio bends him over it and leaves him there, arse in the air and face flushing, while he coats his fingers with the lube. Andrew closes his eyes, beginning to breathe faster. Not being in charge is always unsettling, but right now he needs it, he needs to be taken out of himself, to some place where there are no thoughts about the future, maybe no thoughts at all.

One blunt-tipped finger pushes its way into him, slowly stroking and circling, and Giorgio says firmly, “No brooding. Not when we are together.”

Andrew is being taken in hand. He, who often thinks that he’s the adult in this relationship. What a relief not to be an adult for a little while. “Okay.”

“And not later either.” The finger slides out, and a moment later there are two. Every movement is slow and careful, but makes Andrew’s flesh burn – pain flashes through his brain, and something else flashes there as well, Caravaggio’s picture of Saul thrown off his horse on the road to Damascus, powerless and open-armed. The fingers withdraw, and a warm greasy tip touches him then presses in, and Giorgio says “ _Ti voglio_ ”, and Andrew can only give the barest of nods, words have deserted him, but this is enough, they want each other, they can freely take and freely give.

Giorgio’s hands seize his hips, positioning and steadying him, as fast and passionate and competent as when he cooks or swims or drives, and possessive to boot, as if he needs to reassure himself that right now Andrew is his, no conditions or ifs or buts. He pushes in further and begins to move inside Andrew, and at the same time says “ _Ti voglio bene_ ”. That’s what Italians say, they hardly ever say _Ti amo_ ; neither of them has ever said _Ti voglio bene_ before, not when they were standing alone in the middle of the Dolomites, not when they were racing around Rome on the Vespa, not even during sex.

“ _Anch’io._ ” And then all Andrew can do is shove his hips back against Giorgio’s and breathe deeply, his gasps of pleasure blending with Giorgio’s, their bodies slamming into each other, the impact shoving him hard into the mattress.

“We ‘ave each other. It counts … a lot,” Giorgio gasps out between thrusts, one hand sliding down and closing around Andrew’s cock and beginning to squeeze. “And I’m not letting you go … _capito_?” 

Oh yes, Andrew gets it, and he’s not going to let Giorgio go either. He quickly mutters _capito_ and starts fucking Giorgio’s hand with every ounce of strength he has.

“Good.” Giorgio bends over him, panting against his neck, and for a moment Andrew fears that he may suck or bite, leaving a mark that will be visible tomorrow. But Giorgio manages to control himself, and just gives the side of Andrew’s neck a fast kiss before stiffening, thrusting deep and shooting long hot pulses into him. Andrew shudders and closes his eyes tightly and follows, emptying all of himself into Giorgio’s fingers. 

Giorgio quietly slides out of him and they hold on to each other as they climb onto the bed and fall back against the mattress. Andrew draws in his breath as his backside touches the covers. He will be sore tomorrow, in the car to the airport and on the plane to Heathrow. A memory. A reminder. An invisible mark.

Wincing a little, he props himself up on an elbow and brushes Giorgio’s sweaty curls off his forehead. “Not bad,” he whispers, before kissing him, long and soft.

Giorgio shakes his head at him, returns the kiss, then pulls back a little and states, “We’ll see each other at the editing sessions.” He pauses for a moment, waves one hand, and continues, “And before Christmas I’ll need to … meet Italian suppliers, visit other Italian chefs, it won’t be ‘ard to think of something.”

Andrew grins. “And at the same time I could … have some meetings with museum curators in Palermo, or exhibitions managers in Rome, or art historians in Bologna.”

They smile at each other. Andrew suddenly remembers that his stomach is empty and starts chuckling. “D’you think there’s any hope of rescuing the pork and cabbage?”

“Of course,” Giorgio jumps out of bed. “I’m going to _sweetch_ it back on, it’ll be ready in less than an hour, and while we wait we can watch the news, or maybe we can pack, or maybe …”

Giorgio’s irrepressible vitality is part of why Andrew loves him, but enough is enough. He says, voice brooking no argument, “No. You can come back here …” he pats the empty side of the bed, “and we can just lie together and do absolutely nothing for a while. _Capito_?”

  


Their bags are packed: dirty clothes, shoes, notes, maps, presents for wives and children. Andrew’s suitcase also contains Giorgio’s unreturned blue scarf. The crew will be joining them any minute now; they’ll return the van and the Maserati at Trieste airport before they check in.

They are standing a little apart, not touching. Andrew takes a small step towards the door. Giorgio’s voice stops him.

“ _Andrea. Aspetta_.” And he reaches behind the bookcase, pulls out a small cardboard cylinder and hands it over. “ _Tieni._ ”

It’s a print of the Fattori painting, shapes and colours beautifully reproduced. The bitter-sweetness of the soldiers’ moment of respite will be with him in his study, and he’ll look at it and think _we ‘ave each other, it counts a lot._

“ _Grazie_ ,” he says simply, and opens his briefcase. “This is for you,” and he gives Giorgio a pair of wooden salad servers he bought in Todi, carved in the shapes of two of Beverly Pepper’s towers. Kitschy and silly, but maybe they will give Giorgio a few memories when he uses them.

They look at each other and smirk. Two souvenirs, not expensive or showy; something each of them might have bought for himself. Something that has no special significance for anyone other than the two of them. Great minds do, indeed, think alike.

A car stops in the street below, engine still running; a horn toots once, twice.

“ _Andiamo_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to sybilius and darcyone (friends who generously betaed this story without being in the fandom) and colisahotnorthernmess (who got me into this ship, makes excellent style suggestions, and shares endless jokes and giggles).


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